
Class .TESMS^ 



GopyrigMI^' 



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CDElfRIGHT DEPOSm 



HOURS OF FRANCE 



HOURS of FRANCE 

IN PEACE AND WAR 



BY 



PAUL SCOTT MOWRER 




NEW YORK 

E. P. BUTTON AND COMPANY 

681 FIFTH AVENUE 
1918 



-fS*^ 



Copyright, 1918, 
By E. p. Dutton & Compant 



AU Rights Reserved 



MAY -2 iSi8 



Printed in the United States of America 



©Ci.A497138 



TO 

MY MOTHER 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

ODE TO FRANCE ix 

HOURS OF PEACE 

Spbing Night 3 

The Hillside 4 

Order 6 

Roguery 7 

Egoism ".""... 8 

Summer Night 9 

After Rain 10 

Twilight 11 

Harvest Moon 12 

October Garden 14 

April 15 

IN BRITTANY 

Fete-day at Plou 19 

Sea-crags ' 22 

Two Seasons 24 

Darling Day 25 

A Foolish Song , 26 

Harvest Dance 27 

Fishermen's Wisdom 28 

Mist on the Moor 29 

The Phantom Washerwoman 30 

The Voice of the Dead 32 

The Hour of Woe-betide * . . . 33 

All Night 35 

The Old Women of the Mor^n 36 

CORRIGANS 38 

vii 



CONTENTS 

HOURS OF WAR p^^s 

Tricolor 43 

Pastoral ii 

The Sleeper in the Valley 45 

The Cause 46 

Barbed-wire 47 

Death 48 

To KiFFiN Yates Rockwell 49 

The Lieutenant Awakens in Hospital 50 

To A Poet, Mobilized 51 

To A Circus Clown 53 

Shells 54 

The Field of Glory 56 

To A Lark in Picardy 57 

Home on Leave 58 

November, 1916 59 

An Officer's Burial 60 

Another Burial 61 

At Supper-time 62 

Bois DES Buttes, 1917 63 

Inscription for a Trench 64 

A Wind That Blows from Picardy 65 

The Folly of Age 66 

Hill 119 67 

, MEMORY 

Memory 71 



HOURS OF PEACE 



ODE TO FRANCE 

Why do I love you? 

Love is dumb, and all confused with its own 
amaze. 

Love is all joy, all gratitude, and all distress. 

I can but bend above you. 

Unveil for you whatever haunts my gaze, 

And pass remembering hands along your loveli- 
ness. 

In love, who knows how much be given, how much 

received? 
Love is a mist, a golden cloud, whereof 
A vision is born, a beauty, never else achieved. 
I only know. ... I love. 



SPRING NIGHT 

High in my window I lean to the night and the 

wind. 
Spring, and the potence of passion its labors dis- 
till, 
Course to the quick of me : far in a lap of the hill, 
I would be wandering whither the wild in me 

will- 
Breathing the perfume of earth, of the rain- 
flooded grass, 
Merging my life in the life of all creatures that 

pass, 
Winging with birds, drinking deep with the oak 

by the rill — 
Lost in the ache and the urge of the night and the 
wind. 



THE HILLSIDE 

Well I love the long horizon 
In its bridal gown of wheat; 
But there comes a gayer greeting 
From the hillside at my feet, 
Where the tiniest lives are lisping 
Joy the very stones repeat. 

For in springtime, on the hillside, 
There is courting everywhere. 
First a rout of twittering birds 
Frolic swiftly through the air. 
Flit to cover, bubble music, 
Stop to prink, or fly to pair. 

Then a wind is in the grasses, 
There is laughing in the leaves; 
Not a flower but dips and dances 
To the kisses it receives 
From the creatures winging round it 
Like a gaudy band of thieves. 
4 



THE HILLSIDE 

And I loll among the daisies, 

Idly happy; and the sun, 

Groping golden through the branches. 

Bids me let my fancy run; 

And I lose myself in musing, 

Till the mellow day is done. 

But at evening, when the cowbells 
Tinkle homeward to the town, 
And the silver lights of sunset 
Shed their final glory down. 
Well I love the long horizon 
In its quiet wedding gown. 



ORDER 

It is half past eight on the blossomy bush: 

The petals are spread for a sunning; 
The little gold fly is scrubbing his face; 

The spider is nervously running 
To fasten a thread; the night-going moth 

Is folding his velvet perfection; 
And presently over the clover will come 

The bee on a tour of inspection. 



ROGUERY 

A LINNET in the linden tree 

Hid himself, and saucily 

He mocked the wind, who gave a shout 

And tried to shake the linnet out. 

The minnows in the stream below 
Slid uneasy to and fro, 
Wondering why there fell on them 
Such a shower of leaf and stem. 

I sat upon the bridge between, 
And wished, instead, I might have seen 
What pranks are played in heaven when 
The fear of God descends on men. 



EGOISM 

When swarming buds, like yellow bees, 
Tremble upon the willow trees. 
Beside the broad and sinewy stream 
I sit and spin my sunny dream; 
A dream of groves and grassy hills 
In a land where beauty soothes all ills — 
A laijd of men who love, like me. 
Music and art and poetry. 
With women, ever young again. 
Who only love that kind of men. 
The ripples clapping at my feet. 
Applaud the grace of this conceit. 
But the minnows find it little worth. 
And leap aloud in glittering mirth. 



SUMMER NIGHT 

Going up the village hill 

On a summer night, 

Between a pair of cottages 

I saw a lovely sight: 

Pallid on a silver sky 

Hung a chalky moon; 

And under it, a rosy cloud, 

Delicately hewn, 

Was floating like a lazy fish. 

— That, I think was all. 

But I was pleased, and long I lingered. 

Leaning on the wall. 



AFTER RAIN 

After rain the air is cool, and clover-scented; 

Peace is on the mothering land: it has confessed 

The season's pain to heaven, and been with pity 
blessed ; 

The blossoms wear a smile, the branches breathe 
contented. 

Birds resume their song, and as the breezes 
freshen, 

The white and holy clouds depart in slow pro- 
cession. 



10 



TWILIGHT 

A FISH leaped up — and all was still ; 
A moth flew by, there was no sound. 
Only a red star on the hill 
Fluttered the dusk that closed around. 

Kneeling among the prayerful reeds, 
I watched the evening dim the air, 
I heard the waters telling their beads, 
And night came down, and found me there. 



11 



HARVEST MOON 

A RABBIT hopped from out the wood 
To seek his mate; I saw them meet 
Where like the tents of summer stood 
The shadowy shocks of wheat. 

The old hilltop was wrapped in night; 
But when the moon appeared above, 
I knew, the way she smiled so bright. 
She too was full of love. 

I tossed a kiss, though she was fair 
Beyond all homage I could give; 
And after-awhile I said a prayer 
For all the things that live. 

For everything that lives and loves 
I fashioned thoughts of kindliness 
That rose like shining flights of doves 
In feathery moonbeam dress. 
12 



HARVEST MOON 

And when the world was white with joy, 
I turned and climbed the pasture gate, 
But had a care lest I annoy 
The rabbit with his mate. 



13 



OCTOBER GARDEN 

The leaves upon the water lie, 

Where down they quiver, one by one, 

Although the wind has left the sky. 
And mist is on the sun. 

The fish in filmy quiet lie. 

Pouting as with a secret wish; 

And lovers wander slowly by. 
As quiet as the fish. 



14 



APRIL 

Again the flowers of spring, in a mist of color. 

Veil the meads, and cling in a cloud to hillsides ; 

Once again the tide in the breast that bore us 

Floods to the season. 

Brown brook-water, dipped in the hands held 

cup-wise. 
Young white-rooted grass, to be tasted slowly — 
These I long for, now that the winds of April 
Carry their flavor. 



ii 



IN BRITTANY 



FETE-DAY AT PLOU 

If your faith is as rich as your pocket is poor, 
And you travel all night on the broken sea-moor, 
You may happen by luck — though it's not very 
sure — 
To be present at Plou on a fete-day. 

There's a crowd in the church to partake of the 

mass; 
There's a crowd somewhat younger outside on 

the grass. 
And each lad says a prayer in the ear of his lass, 
For the people are pious on fete-day. 

In sweet-foaming cider and bright eau-de-vie, 
The men drink the praise of the Virgin Marie; 
It makes a man thirsty to follow the sea. 
And it makes a man dull to be sober. 

The women are coiffed in contortions of lace; 
They stand in a ring, and decree the disgrace 

19 



FETE-DAY AT PLOU 

Of all who have strayed from the rules of the 
/ place, 
For at Plou they hold court on a fete-day. 

The children are washed and their feet are in 

shoes, 
They carry balloons of extravagant hues. 
And each has a sweet which he lustily chews. 
For the pennies are plenty on fete-day. 

And beggars? The beggars who beg of you 

there • 
Are the j oiliest beggars you'll meet anywhere: 
They are covered with clams, they have crabs 

in their hair, 
And they break all their legs for a fete-day. 

At night, when the people are snoring in bed. 
The souls of their ancestors rise from the dead. 
For at Plou, you must know, it shall never be 
said 
That a ghost has lain quiet on fete-day. 

I will leave my old living and shoulder my sack 
And take to the moor by the crooked goat-track. 

20 



. FETE-DAY AT PLOU 

If I have any luck, I will never come back, 
For I'll settle in Plou until doomsday. 

O the country of Plou is the country for me! 
I'll sail with the fishermen over the sea, 
I'll grow a great beard, and drink bright eau- 
de-vie, 
And wear a black coat on a fete-day. 



21 



SEA-CRAGS 

I WILL bring her to this place, 

It is so beautiful. 
There never was a bluer sea, 
Nor ever whiter butterflies 
Drifted out in ecstasy 

Over gentler waves, or under softer skies. 
And I will watch delight possess her face. 

Delight so beautiful. 

I will lead her to this pool; 

It is so beautiful, 
With opal waters, rosy moss, 
Algae green as mermaid's hair, 
And golden crabs that slide across 
The shell-encrusted rocks, or wave their claws 

and stare. 
She will love this garden strange and cool. 

Which is so beautiful. 

I will climb these rocks with her, 
They are so beautiful — 



SEA-CRAGS 

The red chaotic granite isles 

The falling tide leaves access to, 

Tall as towers, in grottoed piles 

With cavernous channels deep, the waters 

thunder through. 
And she will scale with me this craggy spur. 
Which is so beautiful. 

I will seat her in this nook. 

It is so beautiful — 
A fairy nook, with grassy pillows, 
Enclosed with cliffs and hung with flowers, 
Opening over murmurous billows 
Where the fishing boats outsail the sunny 

hours. 
And here upon her rapture I shall look, 

Which is so beautiful. 



03 



TWO SEASONS 

In May the fields were smoothly green, 
The gorse was golden on the bough, 
And fairer time was never seen, 
I said, than here and now. 

In August, when I came again. 
The gorse was dark, the stubble bare. 
But heather hemmed the pasture lane. 
And all was just as fair. 



94 



DARLING DAY 

O DAY, your voice is sweet as many birds, 

Singing together! 
Your speech is lovelier than gemmy words, 

Or sunny weather ! 

Your breasts are soft and cool as grassy moss. 
Your eyes are pools where sunlight flits, 

And honeyed as the airs that blow across 
The clover, are your lips ! 

Oh, I have loved you truly, darling day. 

With long caresses ; 
And would that I might clip from you a spray 

Of golden tresses! 

Then might I kiss your memory many times, 

In many a lonesome dawn; 
Then clasp you yet more close than in these 
rhymes, 

Dear day, when you are gone! 

25 



A FOOLISH SONG 

As I was going along, going along, 
The sky was blue, the meadows bright, 
The river, too, all flecked with light ! 
I smiled upon that pretty sight 
As I was going along. 

As I was going along, going along, 
There came a bird, there came a breeze, 
The thicket stirred with melodies 
And never songs were sweet as these, 
As I was going along. 

As I was going along, going along, 
I met a maid who led a lamb, 
And I delayed — fool that I am! — 
For her eyes in limpid laughter swam 
As I was going along. 

As I was going along, going along, 
I thought of breeze and bird and maid, 
The sunny trees, the tender shade. 
And out of them a song I made 
As I was going along. 
26 



HARVEST DANCE 

The clouds are dancing over the bay, 
Scattering colors as they run ; 

Blue and green and purple and gray 
Fade in the shadow and flash in the sun. 

The breezes pipe from wood to field; 

A giddy seagull courtesies low 
Where kneeling washerwomen wield 

Their paddles by the winding flow. 

The farmer's flail is never still; 

It flings the chafF to every gust; 
And merrily, in his creaking mill. 

The miller stacks the silver dust. 



27 



FISHERMEN'S WISDOM 

The fishermen are very wise — 
They know the ways of God, 

How some shall sleep beneath the sea 
As others under the sod. 

They fill their pipes, they spit or puff, 
And grouped along the quay. 

Of weather, luck, and prices they 
Complain contentedly. 



38 



MIST ON THE MOOR 

Was it only the wind — the gray wind? 
Or somebody lost in the waste of the sea? 
Voices, cries ! — from the empty cliiFs ! — 
Where' none should be ! 

And what was that — by the old stone? 
The bracken shivers as if in dread, 
And shapes of mist go shuddering by 
Like souls of the dead. 

Those cries again ! Now which is the path 
To the little house? I have stayed too long! 
There's a sweet fire in the little house, 
And the door is strong. 



99 



THE PHANTOM WASHER- 
WOMAN 

Turn the broom, and shut the door! 

Hang the tripod off the floor! 

Empty water on the ground! 

— As I was coming past the meadow spring — 

It's dark to-night — I couldn't see a thing 

At first, but then I heard a dripping sound! 

There was a woman kneeling on a stone, 

A stranger, dipping her linen all alone ! 

Her eyes were queer, her arms were long and 

white ! 
Oh, shut the door and bolt it tight! 
She spoke — she asked me would I do 
The wringing — but I ran, because I knew 
It was the Washer-Woman of the Night. 

So turn the broom ! Shut the door ! 
Hang the tripod off the floor ! 
Scatter suds along the sill! 
30 



TKE PHANTOM WASHER-WOMAN 

— What makes that noise? What makes the can- 
dle flare? 

Some one is walking in the dark out there! 

Don't answer ! Maybe she'll go 'way ! Be very 
stiU! 



SI 



THE VOICE OF THE DEAD 

Out of the weary sea, the moan of a wave; 
Out of the quiet sky, the note of a bird: 
All that is vast and deep will utter its word — 
All that is vast and deep — even the grave. 

Parting the dreams of night, the dead come back ; 
And heart, be still! Put under your sharp dis- 
may! 
Hearken, my heart, for we shall become as they. 
Echoes and whispers, haunting the lonely black. 

Whispers and memories only — that is our lot? 
Who but the dead can say, when all is said? 
Soft as the voice of love is the voice of the dead : 
Listening heart, fear not, fear not, fear not! 



THE HOUR OF WOE-BETIDE 

The western clouds, inflamed and swollen, have 

swallowed the dying sun. 
And over the darkling waters, pools of coppery 

bloodstain run. 
For now is the hour of primal dreams, the hour 

that all would shun. 

The great rocks heave their shoulders up from 
the outward setting tide 

Like a shoal of black sea-monsters feeding shore- 
ward side by side. 

And now is the hour that all would shun, the 
hour of woe-betide. 

Like a masthead-light on a fated ship that knows 

it nears its doom. 
The evening star goes flickering dim through 

deepening banks of gloom. 
For now is the hour of woe-betide, the hour when 

phantoms loom. 

33 



THE HOUR OF WOE-BETIDE 

Deathly chill, a breeze in silence creeps to the 

land on a wave, 
And stifling chill the breath of it, the stony 

breath of a grave. 
For now is the hour when phantoms loom, the 

hour that spirits crave. 

And what was the tale the fishermen told, and 

swore to its truth — all three, 
How out in the night they saw the dead go by 

in the trough of the sea? 
Now is the hour that spirits crave, the hour of 

mystery. 

The sky is dark with writhing forms, and faint 

the water gleams ; 
Conspiring tongues below the rocks mutter their 

evil schemes, 
And now is the hour of mystery, the hour of 

primal dreams. 



34 



ALL NIGHT 

All night, at quaking doors and throbbing eaves, 
That horde of souls cry out and beat their wings, 
Sadder than any wind that sobs and grieves 
In chimney-places, telling evil things ; 
Sadder and wilder far than any wind. 
That round some lonely cottage moans and sings. 
Telling of hope that failed and love that sinned: 
All night they cry and groan and beat their 
wings. 

O dead unhappy ones, fly far away ! 
Go where the gorse is black upon the moors. 
Moan to the patient skies your sobbing lay 
Of joy too brief, and sorrow that endures. 
Why must you come and keep kind sleep at bay 
Where honest folk seek rest, their honest due. 
Beating your wings and crying out, till they 
Await the dawn as woebegone as you? 



35 



THE OLD WOMEN OF THE MOOR 

When on the moor a howling wind 
Beats in the bracken all the night, 
Sometimes the hurrying traveler sees, 
Amid the gloom, a lonely light. 

Within a hut, beside a hearth 
Where smokes a little fire of broom, 
Three bent old women, thin and pale, 
Are occupied till crack of doom. 

And one is turning griddle-cakes, 
Sitting in cinders on the floor. 
But every time a cake is done. 
The plate is empty as before. 

And one has got a chicken bone; 
She sucks and sucks with greedy lips. 
But has no sooner swallowed it 
Than at her lean throat out it slips. 
36 



TH^ OLD WOMEN OF THE MOOtt 

And one is crouching on her knees, 
Counting a pile of copper sous, 
But always, as she nears the end. 
Forgets, and straight her count renews. 

Then let the night be black and wild, 
And loudly let the chill wind wail. 
But go not near the lonely light, 
Those bent old women, thin and pale. 

He who should eat those griddle-cakes, 
Or with that bone his hunger stay, 
Or count or touch those copper sous 
Must haunt the moor till Judgment Day. 



37 



COKRIGANS 

By the gap in the wall, 

Where the ant-people crawl, 

And the bee-people pass 

To the blossomy grass, 

I was lying this night, 

Covered over from sight 

In a tumble of bracken and may. 

I was thinking how far 

It might be to a star, 

I was lost in a muse, 

When my ear gave me news 

Of the scamper and beat 

Of wee pattering feet 

Not the span of a swallow away. 

I made half a turn. 
And there through the fern, 
In reach of my hand, 
Went a corrigan band! 
38 



CO BRIG AN 8 

Did they flutter, or run, 
As they leaped one by one 
Through the gap to the meadow be- 
yond ? 

They were merry to see — 

Not as high as my knee. 

Yet each roguishly dressed 

In green trousers and vest; 

And all were pop-eyed, 

And their mouths were too wide. 

And each had a thornapple wand. 

When the last hurried through, 

I got up from the dew 

To look over the wall; 

And there they stood all 

On the lawn in a ring: 

They were starting to sing. 

And this was the way of their song: 

"On a Monday we trip it. 
On Tuesday we skip it. 
There's Wednesday for working 
And Thursday for shirking. 
But Friday is blest, 
39 



C0BRIGAN8 

And a plague on the rest, 

For the week, it is ages too long!" 

To this curious rhyme 

They went circling in time; 

Their voices were keyed 

Like the plaint of a reed; 

And the stars, gleaming down. 

Gave each dancer a crown. 

And the pasture was jeweled with light. 

Ever faster the feet; 

Ever sweet and more sweet 

That enchanted complaint; 

Ever faint and more faint. 

And sweeter and frailer 

And farther and paler. 

Till all were absorbed in the night. 

There's a quaint little beat 
That I often repeat; 
There's a tune in my heart 
That will never depart; 
There's a thought in my brain 
That is stronger than pain — 
A wisdom of lowly delight. 
40 



HOURS OF WAR 



TRICOLOR 

Red are the poppies, 
Blue are the cornflowers, 
Over the dead 

White are the crosses 
Flecking the young wheat 
Far and wide. 

Softly the breezes 
Cradle the blossoms 
Blue and red, 

Over the wheat-birth 
Tenderly crooning 
Where they died. 



PASTORAL 

Village, empty now, and laid in ruin, 
Who will raise your walls against the rain? 
Pasture, where the sheep were wont to wander, 
Will the shepherd ever come again? 

Wood, poor blackened wood where passed the 

battle, 
How should bough of yours again be green? 
Field — oh, ploughed and sown indeed, but barren, 
Long the reaper waits, and waits in vain. 



THE SLEEPER IN THE VALLEY 

(After the French of Jean Arthur Rimbaud) 

It is a leafy glade where sings a stream, 

Hanging the grass with rags of silver bright, 

Where from the mountain falls a sunny beam; 

It is a little vale a-foam with light. 

His shoulders bathed in cresses fresh and blue, 

A soldier, young, mouth open, bare of head. 

Stretched out beneath the sky, sleeps in the dew. 

Pale where the light rains down on his green bed. 

His feet in irises, beside the river, 

He sleeps and smiles like a sick child at rest. 

Cradle him warmly, Nature; he is cold. 

The perfume does not make his nostril quiver. 

There in the sun he sleeps, with hand on breast. 

So still. In his right side are two red holes. 



45 



THE CAUSE 

Let but the cause seem beautiful, dear God, 
If we must die! Make us believe, in truth. 
It is for all mankind we give our youth — 
To stay till end of time the oppressor's rod; 
That but for us, harsh power would ride rough- 
shod . 
Through freedom's delicate gardens, and the 

tooth 
Of hatred rend our people without ruth: 
So may we sleep content below the sod. 
But else-^— ! Who knows what gladness here on 

earth 
Was destined us, what high and sweet employ? 
O hard it is that youth should cease to be! 
For now came love, with a great glad rebirth, 
To company our way, and now came joy! 
— Not death we fear, but death's futility. 



46 



BARBED WIRE 

There lies a tangled vineyard in a land 
Where none may go, nor mind of man conceive; 
A drunken god, creative in a dream, 
The like disaster scarcely could achieve. 

Such sickness there befouls the breast of earth 

As rots the very roots of life away — 

A black eruption, a devouring pox: 

Yet flourishes that vineyard day by day. 

Its tendrils brave the coldest winter wind; 
Its branches never bend beneath the rain; 
And hardly do they feel the burning hail 
That smites incessant on that land of pain. 

September comes, but here no harvest is, 
No purple clusters deck the curling vine; 
Gray is the vineyard, gray and full of thorns, 
Yet from its tangles drips a ruddy wine. 



4.7 



DEATH 

Then Death, since we must trust ourselves to you, 
Leave off the joys that we were dreaming of. 
The troubles we were sure to rise above, 
The deeds of grace and skill we meant to do; 
Since we must leave behind this earth's fair hue. 
This sound of life with laughter interwove. 
The city's friendly streets, the lips we love, 
And all the strong desires men cling unto, 
Let us become acquainted not too slowly, 
Not in the gradual way of ebb and pain, 
O hospitable Death, but swift and fain, 
Heart unto heart, and each accepting wholly ! 
For you, another guest ; for me, release ; 
For you, a friend; for me, an early peace. 



48 



TO THE MEMORY OF KIFFIN 
YATES ROCKWELL 

(American Aviator) 

You who fought for France with a mystic pas- 
sion, 
Soaring fierce and lonely above the thunder, 
Fiery one, aggressor in fifty combats, 
Ever the bravest; 

We, who knew your look, and the noble sweetness. 
All your high disdain for the death you smiled on. 
Bend our thought in reverence down before you — 
Fallen in beauty. 



49 



THE LIEUTET^ANT AWAKENS 
IN HOSPITAL 

I KNOW my own mind, doctor ! Let me go ! 
Let go my wrist. We must retake the farm! 
They hiss like red-hot beetles in my ears, 
They crush, they never stop. No, no, no, no! 
Oh, not my leg! Oh, doctor, not my leg! 
Damn you, sir, let me up. I want to walk. 
The captain fell, I tell you — through the head. 
Already dawn is creeping past the church 
And down the pasture lane. They come too late. 
I hear ma^chine-guns coughing in the mist. 
Write this report: the color of pain is red 
And black on hills of gray. He died a man. 
Grenades at fifteen yards ! Now, boys, once more ! 
I charge, with all my heart, with all my soul! 



50 



TO A POET, MOBILIZED 

We used to see you leaning by the river, 
Your errand all forgot, watching the flow 
Of dappled light, or upstream thrust and quiver 
Of tugs with laden barges lashed in tow. 

Such love was in your heart as children know 
Before the embittered brain begins to ponder; 
On every passerby your eyes would throw 
Their gentle understanding, or their wonder. 

The free-sworn friend of lowly life, your ways 
Were quiet as pansies, and as quaintly proud; 
A spell was in your music, as of days 
To kindness and the faith of beauty vowed. 

And now you write, your company led the van 
On that accursed hillside ! O our friend, 
May all the spirits guardian over man 
Make miracles about you to the end! 

51 



TO A POET, MOBILIZED 

Then we will kiss the horror from your eyes, 
And bid you charm us as you used to do. 
Come back again ! for beauty never dies, 
But those who keep the faith are very few. 



52 



TO A CIRCUS CLOWN, KILLED 
IN BATTLE 

The moon is white as paint to-night. 
With spotted face, it leers around 
A flap of cloud, as if to fright 
The earth, and laughs without a sound. 

A cannon gives a shout of "Boo!" 
Behind the hill. A cricket squeaks. 
The frogs that antic in the slough 
Cry "Ouch!" as if exchanging tweaks. 

A tree stoops innocently down 
Beside the stream. The rowdy breeze 
Gives it a push. It wets its gown 
And stays absurdly on its knees. 

You do not hear the boo-ing gun, 
Or see the creatures at their tricks; 
For you the sorry jest is done: 
You lie beneath a pair of sticks. 

53 



SHELLS 

Like a rally of witches who scream through the 

sky, 
Like warlocks who gallop the moon-shattered 

cloud ; 
Like soul-drunken demons who wing with a cry 
To fasten their fangs in a new-buried shroud; 

From black-wooded valley, from thicket and hole, 
They moan through the midnight, affrighting the 

air, 
To meet in a crowd on the desolate knoll. 
And dance until dawn in the misty moon-glare. 

The trample and roll of their hoofs is a sound 
That startles to anguish the shuddering night. 
And the flash of their hoofs, as they stamp on 

the ground. 
Is a glitter, a blazing, a stabbing of light. 

Like giants who caper, like genii of ill. 
With vaporous bodies and flame-bearing feet, 

54. 



SHELLS 

They kick and reel backward and leap, till the 

hill 
Is a lightning-lit cloud where they circle and 

meet. 

Now left and now right lean the turbulent forms ; 
The red flashes glitter now over, now under; 
Now upward, now outward they fling their dark 

arms ; 
The firmament crashes and rocks to their thunder. 

Like giants, like genii frenzied with ire. 

Now leaping, now writhing, they stagger and 

sway ; 
With earth-quaking tread and a striking of fire, 
They stamp and they dance till the dawning of 

day. 

The pale eye of day gazes down on the ground 
Where their violent festival trampled the mud; 
The knoll is as bare as a funeral mound ; 
Its verges are kneaded with branches and blood. 



65 



THE FIELD OF GLORY 

No flower, but thorny fires that prick the vision; 
No grass, but clods as blank and gray as death; 
Monster growths of blackly writhing smoke- 
spray. 
Shedding sickly scents that cut the breath; 

No bees, but humming, whining, unseen hornets ; 
No birds, but something vast that rocks the air; 
Thunders, as when chaos baulked creation; 
Silences, as pallid as despair. 



56 



TO A LARK IN PICARDY 

Sing to the sun ! Amid the crash of shells, 
Leap up, O lark, and have your ecstasy! 
Shake out that sound of joy like tinkling bells! 
Mount higher yet on buoyant wings of glee ! 

The race of bird and man is very old. 
And none may count the generations gone; 
With broken wing, or forehead bruised and cold, 
Each droops at last beyond the call of dawn. 

The sun, that now pours forth a plenteous light 
Alike on slayer and slain, nor turns away, 
Has gazed of old on many a tragic sight: 
Seek him! Take hope of him, in this dark day! 

What matters it how thick the shells be hurled? 
Soar up, and have your ecstasy, and sing! 
What though mankind go mad, and wreck the 

world ? 
Leap up in joy! O sing, and soar, and sing! 

S7 



HOME ON LEAVE 

(CoUoque Sentimental) 

To the clanking sound of trains that come and go, 
Two figures, clinging close, are speaking low. 

"Must you go back — to that red emptiness — 
The muddy trench, the dreary waiting?" "Yes." 
"Is there no secret way?" "There is no way." 
"And you will write?" "As often as I may." 
"But if no letter comes, or mails are slow?" 
"I have a comrade ; he will let you know." 
"At least be prudent — this I beg of you." 
"I only do what all the others do." 
"And still you see no hope, no gleam of light?" 
"Not yet. . . . No end this year. . . . Good 
night." 



58 



NOVEMBER, 1916 

The light is pale, the skies are thick with cloud 
Beyond the yellow wood, whose tattered boughs 

In shuddering emptiness 

Enfold the silent hill. 

Like littered leaves that rise upon a wind. 
There swirls above the wood a flock of crows, 

And long they eddy there 

With lift and falling turn. 

Why should November come again, when all 
Our days are now so like the dying year — 

The same enclouded skies, 

And black ill-omened birds .'^ 



£9 



AN OFFICER'S BURIAL 

Behind the wailing horns and rolling drums, 
Between the files of riflemen in blue, 
The coffin on a gray gun-carriage comes. 
Wrapped in a flag, with flowers of golden hue. 

A horse upon whose back no rider is. 
Bewildered walks behind the colored pall ; 
And after, march the sullen ranks of men 
Who all too lately saw their leader fall. 

Their cheeks are thin, their eyes are darkly set, 
As on some vision moving in their minds. 
And now the slow cortege has left the town, 
And toward the meadow's crowded crosses winds. 

The drums are still. By twice a thousand dead 
They bear their one dead more, where hawthorne 

shades 
A bank of clay, and two old men climb up, 
And wipe their sweaty brows, and clean their 

spades. 

60 



ANOTHER BURIAL 

The stretcher-bearers pause, and lower their 

burden, 
Where lie in a row, upon the watery plain. 
Eleven shapes, like sculptures marred and broken, 
Brought hither from some ruinous altar of pain. 

The men at work in the ditch put by their shovels. 
Shake ofF their mud, and all in the silent rain. 
Bury the twisted shapes, and drive a stake in. 
Should any one wish to come to the place again. 



61 



AT SUPPER TIME 

From burrowed huts below the hill 
The smokes of evening fires ascend; 
With winter's mist and clammy chill 
Odors of burning hemlock blend. 

A drowsy thunder mutters low: 
Midway the slope, four shells explode! 
Like flowers of hell, in flame they blow 
Where climbs a trench in mazy road. 

Between its winding walls of brown, 
Three men went up with pails of broth; 
Three men went up — two men come down, 
Bearing a form beneath a cloth. 



62 



BOIS DES BUTTES, 1917 

A WEEK ago the battle filled the wood 
With crashing shells in lawn and leafy alley. 
To-day the guns are still, the dead may sleep 
The wood is full of lilies-of-the-valley. 

Their unresisting multitudes have won 
The bloody glades, the long-disputed dells : 
Around the fallen oaks, and fallen men, 
They lift the creamy clusters of their bells. 

A week ago the hot and salty smoke 
To deeds of valor stung the panting breath. 
Now nothing stirs: the mild air only tells 
Of lilies-of-the-valley, and of death. 



63 



INSCRIPTION FOR A TRENCH 

Here may no man lift up his head, and live. 
The furies rush and bellow, night and day, 
Mysterious creatures whimper through the air, 
Yet none may know their face, or what they say. 
Medusa turned the gazer's form to stone: 
Here he who dares to look becomes as clay. 



64 



A WIND THAT BLOWS FROM 
PICARDY 

Dark-eyed girl in the garden close, 
Hemming the sheet so fine and white, 
Why do you start when falls a rose? 
The full-blown rose was his delight. 

Brown-haired woman, quiet and wan. 
Pressing a babe to the heavy breast — 
The breast he loved to slumber on — 
Why do you stir with strange unrest? 

Gray-haired mother, kneeling alone. 
Plucking the weeds from the pansy-bed — 
The gentle flowers he called his own — 
Why do you pause and lift your head? 

A wind that blows from Picardy — 
From Picardy, where lie the slain — 
A wind that blows from Picardy 
Is breathing low beside the lane. 



65 



THE FOLLY OF AGE 

Old men with wooden leg or empty sleeve 
Will sit at last, and scold and sigh and fret, 
Talking of trench and shell at Auberive, 
Or mud and rain in Flanders, with regret. 

And basking through the peaceful afternoons, 
"The times have sadly dwindled," they will say. 
"The lads who fought at Dixmude and the dunes 
Were not, thank God, like these young men 
to-day." 



HILL 119 

A HUNDRED years from now, when summer nights 
Are deep and still above the dreamy grain, 
When moonlight on the mossy village roofs 
Falls in a flood, and whitens lawn and lane, 

Some lone belated peasant, quick with wine, 
Or weak of wit, or weary unto trance, 
Staggering up the road, will see, perhaps, 
A vision of the curse that fell on France 

A hundred years ago: the quaking sky 

Will crash and sigh and moan in agonies ; 

A fiery tossing host will trample down 

Village and grain and grove and poplar trees. 

Once more the pitted hill will shake and groan; 
Once more, through eddying smoke and claps of 

fire, 
The long thin line will struggle up the slope 
To perish in the thorny webs of wire. 

67 



HILL 119 



And then the sight will fade, the moon will smile 
As tranquil as before on roof and bough. 
Only a midnight shudder in the leaves 
Will stir the hill, a hundred years from now. 



68 



MEMORY 



MEMORY 

I WALKED alone at eventide. 

Behind me lay the melancholy hills where sank 

the sun; 
Before, a darkening slope, a winding road. 
And lo, as I reached the summit, at my side 
I heard a host of little footfalls patter and run — 
A flock of sheep ! and at their head a cloaked 

shepherd strode. 
Below me lay the village, their abode. 
The smoke above its purple roofs was blue 
As was the twilight gathered there, 
As blue as night, or memory, and I knew 
Somewhere, 

In another land, an age of gold, 
I too had led my sheep at evening to their fold. 
And I was very old. 



Tl 



